That Royle Girl/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
Calvin received, at noon, a transcript of the remarkable disquisition which Dads during the morning offered to the police in defense of Joan; and, after he read it, Calvin banished most of the small residuum of doubt of Ketlar's guilt and of the implication of Joan Daisy.
In one important respect only did Dads' testimony agree with Joan Daisy's—that is, with her second statement given personally to Calvin and which he believed to contain the larger element of truth. Dads swore that he was present and operating the radio when he heard "Home, Sweet Home" sung in Los Angeles; he swore also that Joan Daisy was present; and, further and most definitely, that Fred Ketlar was present, not only during the hearing of the entire song, but for some half-hour before and for some time afterward, when Ketlar and he discussed several subjects—to wit, radio, naturally; the results of the world series baseball games; also, horse-racing.
Of course, Dads had discoursed under extraordinary handicap, having been obliged to improvise details of his own without any sort of information as to what Ketlar and Joan Daisy might have done and said. His aim had been to establish an alibi for them; and, in going about this business, he had begun with an actual incident—the same incident to which Joan Daisy had so emphatically sworn, which was the presence of Ketlar and herself in the flat, which she called her "home," when the song was heard from Los Angeles.
The discrepancies between Dads' improvisation and Joan Daisy's statement were, in all other respects, "laughable," Calvin said; but he did not laugh.
On his table in the hotel room, which to-day he used for an office, he placed the pages of James M. Royle's testimony beside the sheets written up from Joan Daisy Royle's deposition and he felt the danger from them. For in one essential—in the detail which already was shaping itself as the critical point of the case—James Morton Royle's and his daughter Joan Daisy's statement agreed; and Calvin acridly blamed himself for this situation.
The girl had tricked him, he felt sure; he had let her "work" him when, before she was taken from the flat, she had written her note to her father and Calvin foolishly had declined to examine it. Now it was clear to him that she had told her father, in that note, to swear to this alibi.
"I was soft for her!" Calvin accused himself and warmed with chagrin as he recollected his sentiment when he had watched her from her window on her way out with the policewoman, and he had stood beside her desk and left, unopened, her note to her father.
Temporarily, Calvin was alone in the room which was en suite with two others, in the further of which Ketlar was confined, the next room being used by other assistant state's attorneys and by the police. The suite was in the same hotel, and was only a floor lower than the rooms given to Joan Daisy and her female guard.
No one, except certain officials of the police and the state's attorney's office, knew where Ketlar and Joan Daisy Royle were being "held." Not even the newspaper men.
The interrogation of Ket, which had lapsed for a period during the morning, was methodically resumed in the third room of the suite; and as it continued Calvin looked in and listened from time to time, but he left to others the task of the questioning; and he had ceased to expect much more from it. His assistants seemed to him to be merely chasing Ketlar around and around a beaten circle of lies, making him more familiar with them at each circuit.
Ketlar had had breakfast and had rested a little. In her room on the floor above, Joan Daisy was asleep. At least, this was the word from Mrs. Hoswick, who watched her; and, at noon, the information was two hours old.
Calvin had not slept, nor had he even rested since he had been called from bed. He sat at his table, alone in the hotel room, sorting over the sheets of evidence, with a pencil in hand for notes of analysis and contradiction; but when he came to the Royle girl's words, he saw her as first she had faced him, her thrilling, blue eyes gazing into his, with her fine head flung back, challenging him for coming in the name of the State! He saw her slender, white arms and her hands; her white heels ascending the stairs ahead of him . . . her graphic pantomime of herself in Ketlar's embrace after he had come back from the building near the lake.
The room telephone rang and Mrs. Hoswick, upstairs, reported, "She is awake now and getting up."
"Order breakfast for her," Calvin said tersely, "if she wishes it."
"She wants to talk to you."
"I will be up presently," Calvin replied and busied himself again with the depositions; but he read only mechanically while he was reckoning the time to be allowed for Joan Daisy to dress.
His pretense with himself offended him, and he pushed back from the table and honestly considered his own agitation. Undeniably, he was impatient and the object of his impatience was to see again the girl who was upstairs.
Because of this he made himself delay longer than was actually required; and partly because of it he did not go up alone but stopped at the door of Ketlar's room and called out one of the men stenographers at work in there.
When Mrs. Hoswick admitted them, Calvin found Joan Daisy seated near the window at a small breakfast-table with a coffee pot on a spirit lamp and a covered dish before her. Evidently her breakfast had been brought a few minutes earlier, since no waiter was about; but she had not even poured her coffee.
She was dressed as she had been when she had left Calvin in the room which she called her "home"; her lips were carmined similarly and upon her pale cheeks was the same amount of color; but her appearance was changed. She had become frightened.
Very evidently she was struggling to combat her fright.
"Good morning, Mr. Clarke," she said and arose.
"Good morning," replied Calvin and, referring to the stenographer, said: "You've seen Mr. Eller before, I believe."
"Yes, I've seen Mr. Eller. How do you do?" Joan Daisy spoke to the stenographer, who seated himself and immediately opened his book.
"Sit down," Calvin bid her shortly, "and go on with your breakfast."
"It don't want any breakfast."
"Didn't you order it?" he asked, nettling in the surprising way in which he had begun with her last night.
"No. Mrs. Hoswick did. I don't want it and I don't understand it, Mr. Clarke. I don't understand any of this. Who's paying my bills here?"
"The county," replied Calvin.
"Why?"
"Why?" repeated Calvin. "We brought you here; we're holding you here."
"Why? I mean, why am I at a hotel? Why do you give me coffee on a burner and rolls under a silver cover?"
"That is the service of this hotel," said Calvin.
"But why do I get it? If you believe I'm guilty with Mr. Ketlar, why don't you put me in jail? If I'm not guilty, why'm I not free?"
"Sit down," ordered Calvin, insisting upon his way with her. She was shaking, and he wanted her to be comfortable. "Sit down and eat something. Drink some coffee, anyway."
"Will you have some?" she asked, obeying him. He saw that she had two cups, and the coolness of her evident plan surprised him so that he asked, "Did you order that for me?"
"No; they just came. But Mrs. Hoswick had something earlier; she doesn't want anything now. Did you have something?"
"No," admitted Calvin.
"I thought not. You want cream and sugar?" She was pouring a cup for him.
"Neither; nor coffee, either, thank you."
"With me, you won't," she said, her cheeks flushing red under their rouge, "because you think I—murdered."
"No," he denied quickly—too quickly for him. "I've eaten with murderers often." And at the deeper, crimson stain in her cheeks and spreading over her white forehead, he said: "I don't think you murdered."
"You think I merely—helped in it."
Calvin glanced about to Eller who dutifully was recording by shorthand in his book.
"What did you send for me for?" Calvin questioned her sternly, when he confronted her again.
"I want to see Ket—Mr. Ketlar!"
"I've told you you can't yet."
"Where are you holding him?" she persisted and when Calvin refused answer, she asked, "In this hotel, isn't it? Mrs. Hoswick made only a house-call to get you; you were with him, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"You're giving him coffee on a burner to keep it hot, and hot rolls under silver?"
"And eggs and bacon and wheat-cakes with syrup," Calvin continued, accusingly. "He made a good meal this morning."
And again she surprised him: "But you couldn't—nor could I. Did you sleep?"
"I haven't tried to."
"I went to bed, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"I heard her tell you; I heard her tell you I was asleep. Of course I wasn't. But I was lying quiet—it must've been for a couple of hours. I was trying to think it out—I was trying to think you out, Mr. Clarke, particularly. Of course, you're the person we've got to show. You're from the east, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"New England?"
"Massachusetts."
"Boston?"
"No; but near there," Calvin volunteered, to stop this.
"You talk, and I guess you think just like a man I worked for once who came from Boston; he was in the shoe business. Of course, working for him, I got to know him pretty well. He was—rooted, too, you bet."
"Rooted?" said Calvin.
"In his own ideas, wrong or right. He had an office out here—and a family. But his mind lived back there in Boston; and his children were all born there. His wife, she used to go back and forth. Are you married, Mr. Clarke?"
"What's this to do with—"
"Are you"
"No."
"His wife was worse Boston than he; he'd get changed some during the day and he'd get all Boston again overnight. So maybe there's more hope for you."
"Hope" said Calvin, astounded.
"For you to find some use in people who maybe haven't been born your kind and got your exact ideas. Ket sure hasn't. He's a liar; and I was a liar for a while last night. He went down and did something, I don't know what; but I know it wasn't shooting Adele.
"He was untrue to her; but he wasn't stingy. He petted around with a lot of girls, and I don't doubt he went the limit with most. He's got nothing behind him but a manicure mother and a papa who'd picked her up, I suppose. So whether or not you figure he shot his wife, he's nothing to you. You'd never have taken any interest in him—would you?—except to hang him. He's nobody for the University Club; he's not a hand-me-down man, like you. He's not already made—by his papa and people. He's just a lot of goods which is getting together; and you just give him a chance to get himself together! You just give him a chance, Mr. Clarke! Then you'll see something.
"He won't be like you; so you won't like him, though. That shoe man I was telling you about was awful worried about this section; he was sure the country was going to the dogs because it was running out of ready-mades like him—and you. Now, you know, I liked that man; yes, I admired him; but somehow it didn't keep me awake nights to think of the supply of him running short. I'd look around and I'd see Ket, who came from God knows where, and running his own band at twenty!"
Calvin had recoiled, conscious of the policewoman behind him; at his side, when he stepped back, he saw the stenographer, Eller, obediently busy with his pencil. Calvin Clarke resumed his previous position before his prisoner.
"That is what you wanted to tell me this morning?"
"No," she gasped. "I didn't know I was going to say it. That—that ran away with me, Mr. Clarke! Don't hurt Ket because of me! You can kill Ket, can't you? Or let him free?"
"I can't kill any one, in the sense that I can convict him, if he is not guilty," Calvin corrected. "His own acts and his own admissions accuse him."
"Admissions?" she caught at the word. "Ket hasn't confessed!"
Calvin turned from her without reply; and she was at his side, plucking at his sleeve. "What have you got from him?" she begged.
"Never mind," said Calvin.
"Nothing!" she asserted, releasing him. "Bluffing! That's all you were doing. Bluffing!"
"I did not mean by admissions that he had confessed," Calvin denied, coldly. "Yet he has made admissions."
"What?"
"Do you want to see him now?"
"Oh, haven't I been asking it?"
"I will arrange it," said Calvin, and, nodding to Eller to accompany him, he went out.
In the hall he put out his hand for Eller's book and asked, "Where did you start with your notes in that room?"
Crumpling the pages which the stenographer indicated, Calvin tore them out and thrust them into his pocket.
Joan Daisy returned to her table where she poured a cup of coffee and drank it, unsweetened and black.
"Now eat something, dearie," her guardian urged and herself buttered a roll for the prisoner.
"I'm fine," Joan protested, feeling her pulse pounding at the stimulation of her excitement and from the strong, clear coffee. "Did I hand him too much?" she inquired of the policewoman, as of a friend.
"Oh, he didn't get it half," Mrs. Hoswick reassured. "You didn't start him none worrying about himself."
"I shouldn't have gone for him," Joan accused herself. "But I guess you're right; he's from the east so he's well protected." And the girl and woman touched hands in an instinct of common opposition to Calvin Clarke.
She was a calm, pleasant and physically powerful woman of middle age, was Mrs. Hoswick, a native of Indiana and a widow. Though friendly, she was watchful and reliable. When the room phone rang, she prevented the girl from answering, but in a moment handed the instrument to Joan Daisy, saying:
"Mr. Clarke will put your father on the wire; you may speak with him to tell him how you are; nothing else."
Dads' voice inquired, solicitously, "Joan, m'dear, how are you?"
"Perfectly well, Dads. I'm in a nice room at a hotel. How's mamma?"
"I'll have you out and home promptly, m'dear," Dads promised with a confident jauntiness which was explained when he added, "I've communicated with Hoberg—effectively—effectively," Dads emphasized, "and I found him immensely concerned—oh, immensely." Then the connection was cut.
Hoberg! Why did Dads communicate with him? Joan Daisy deplored. Of course he would concern hims self; but she did not want him doing it, even if he proved very effective. She did not want to be helped by Hoberg.
Partly in an instinct of self-preservation, she shrank from the idea. Hoberg would not be effective for any final good for herself, and not for any good at all for Ket. So far from helping him, Hoberg undoubtedly would prefer him out of the way. Surely Mr. Hoberg would try to separate her from Ket, and she did not want to be removed further from him; she did not want to be out and free at any cost whatever to Ket.
The phone transmitted instruction for Mrs. Hoswick to escort her charge downstairs; and, in accordance with her own request, Joan Daisy was brought to the room where Ket was held.
She was aware that her visit was permitted for no advantage to Ket or to herself, but because Mr. Clarke had decided that the time was ripe to confront Ket with her again. She almost turned at the door; but she wanted to see Ket! How she wanted to see him!
He was seated, dressed in brown and with a cloud of cigarette smoke hiding his face from her eager, first glance. On both sides of him, plain-clothes policemen were sitting. The smoke blew away, and she saw Ket, red-eyed and with his lips drooping, haggard.
"By God!" he cast at her bitterly.
He took her aback; then she stepped closer, while he stared up at her and did not arise. "By God," he flung once more his awful reproach of her.
She went white, but held up her head and faced him. "Ket, I told him the truth," she said, speaking of Mr. Clarke, who was standing to the right of the seated men, but she never glanced at him. "I had to, Ket. You tell the truth—just as it was, nothing else. Then when they take us apart, they'll see that everything tabs. They can't catch us. You didn't do it. So just tell the truth."
"I have! I have!" Ket nearly screamed. "It's you been lyin'—you! By God, if they get me—if they hang me—you've done it!" And he sprang up at her; then, he swung about, showing his back.
"Anything else you want to say?" a plain-clothes man asked.
Joan Daisy gulped, but she maintained control of herself until she had returned to her room and was alone again with her guard.
"There, there," Mrs. Hoswick patted her, when at last She became convulsed with crying. "There, dearie. You didn't do him no harm. They had the goods on him anyway. Don't blame yourself. You didn't do it."
Calvin forsook the hotel, taking refuge in his own rooms, where many messages awaited him, most of which he ignored; but he telephoned to the Todds, in Winnetka, to apologize to Emily for his unceremonious departure, and he was obliged somewhat to supplement the information which they had gained from a newspaper sent them from the city.
"We are holding Ketlar," he admitted; and to Emily's interrogatory, "Was that other girl at the bottom of it?" he replied, "That is one matter which we are investigating."
"Exactly what sort is she?" Emily asked, definitely. "Innocent or awfully bad?"
"That is very difficult to determine," Calvin replied. "Very."
He attempted to dismiss the matter of Joan Daisy Royle, while he ate, solitarily, and later when he lay resting; but he met with no success. How she proffered him fight at their moment of meeting! How white was her forehead, how blue her eyes, how fine the head behind them! How small and slender and white her feet!
Under his shut eyelids he had vision of her at her little table, offering him coffee. Hope for him! . . . Ready-made man . . . hand-me-down man . . . worried about this section because it was running out of men like him. . . . What had she been talking about? Whom had she mocked? Himself, obviously. But what did she mean by what she said?
Now he had vision of her coming up to Ketlar after he had accused her—her who had fought so for him! Words of Mrs. Hoswick's last report echoed: "She's back in her room; she's broke down at last. She's crying terrible, but not saying anything."
Calvin's servant announced that Mr. G. A. Hoberg was calling upon important business connected with the Ketlar investigation. The servant said that Mr. Hoberg was a tall, well-dressed man, about forty, with red hair. He looked like a well-off business man.
"Show him up," bid Calvin, and knew that he was receiving the employer of Joan Daisy Royle before Hoberg introduced himself.
"I am here at the instance of Miss Royle's father," Hoberg asserted. "And after a conference with my lawyer," he added.
Calvin waited and continued to estimate his caller, who evidently was Swedish. Probably, thought Calvin, he had been born in this country, of immigrant parents, educated in American schools, had prospered in the contracting business, and so here he was, at forty, broad-shouldered and big-handed and red-haired, very well dressed and exceedingly sure of himself as he set about telling Calvin Clarke of the laws of the country.
"I understand that you have in custody Fred Ketlar and Miss Royle."
Calvin nodded.
"Where are they?"
"That," said Calvin, "is an affair of the state's attorney's office."
"But you do not deny that you have them in custody. Have you arraigned them before any magistrate?"
"Not yet."
"Have you entered against them any charge of crime?"
"That will be done in its time."
"Have you regarded their constitutional right to summon and consult with counsel?"
"Why do you ask this?"
"Because you are holding them outside the law. I demand their immediate release."
"Whose?" Calvin asked suddenly. "Ketlar's or Miss Royle's?"
"Both."
"You want him out, do you, after he has killed his wife?"
"I want," said Hoberg, weakening, "to see the law obeyed in his case. If you have evidence against him, hold him, prosecute him, and put him in jail. I want her out, now."
"What do you know of her innocence or guilt?"
"I'll find out what you know or don't know," Hoberg threatened, offensively, "by exactly ten o'clock to-morrow morning. I'd smoke you out now, if there was a judge sitting—if it wasn't Sunday. As it is, at ten o'clock to-morrow morning my lawyer will be in court with a habeas corpus writ for Miss Royle, and you will hand her over to me, I think!" Hoberg ended, very hotly.
Outwardly Calvin remained cool until Hoberg was gone; but the heat of his antagonism to the man amazed him, and especially its persistence when he was alone again.
He could not explain it away as simple dislike of two men for each other; or as due to their dispute over law. It was something too personal. It was contest, not over Ketlar or law or right and wrong, but over a girl, whom one held and whom the other meant to have from him.